Grande Cafe, Rosebank Mall

Wednesday, September 04, 2002

Service: * * *1/2
Food: N/A
Ambience: * * *1/2
Babe Count: * *1/2

Nine-thirty pm. Just arrived here. Have whipped my index cards out of the bottom right pocket of my cargo trousers, and have them spread across the table. The cards, not my trousers.

Tea and cheesecake on my left, pile of books on my right. I'm reading all three of them at once -- PAPERBACK RAITA by William Rhode, DATING: A Survival Guide From The Frontlines by Josey Vogels, GOOD SCRIPTS BAD SCRIPTS by Thomas Pope. And a back issue of SCENARIO MAGAZINE, which has three comedy screenplays in it. Viva!

There's a mound of kugels at the next table. An older woman and her husband. A younger woman and her husband. And a pretty, sharp-faced, red-bloused oldish woman. On her own.

And whenever I look up from my palmtop keyboard, there she is, making eye-contact with me as she yentzes on and on relentlessly about somebody who had a birthday on Saturday. She's wearing a glossy wedding ring. Where the hell do all these wedding rings come from?

Hmm. Just put my glasses on. It's not me she's lusting after. It's the cheese cake. This is one of those occupational hazards. Wearing glasses doesn't really go with being a coffee-shop voyeur. I have to take the glasses off to type, and put them on to leer. Ah well. I make do.

Oh my goodness. A ginger-haired bagel has just sidled up to the kugel platter.

"Heowziht?" he whines, his nasal passages resonating like the second exhaust on a BMW 650. "You guys marrrrrrried neow?"

"Hey Trevor. Ya, we are, hey."

"Okay. Gotta goh neow. Chee-uhrs."

But it's time to stop typing Coffee-Shop Schmuck schtuff, and get down to the deadly business of writing a movie.

Europa, Parkhurst

Wednesday, September 04, 2002

Service: * * *1/2
Food: * * *1/2
Ambience: * * *1/2
Babe Count: * * * *

My superb friend Erich Viedge is having supper with me. I opt for the Giselle, my new de-facto standard against which I measure all Cajun chicken salads. He's having a sandwich. To drink... for me, an Oran Soda, imported from Italy. For Erich, a Chinotto, imported from Italy. For some reason, this salad isn't as good as the one I had in the Norwood branch of Europa. It's good, but not splendid.

Robyn, our waitress, is going to be seriously dazzling when she improves her general knowledge. She doesn't seem to be able to answer even a simple question.

"Erich wants to meet a woman and have babies with her," I offer as preamble to the question. I ask her, "Do you want babies?"

"Ooooooh!" she says, squirming her shoulders, which seem attached to her bra straps, since her breasts kinda rise and fall with the movement, "you guys are making me blush!"

Erich and I are talking about how to make some serious money. We're looking at the next phase in the life of Barefoot Press, the publishing house I founded and own. No details are available as yet, since our conversations are confidential. But I'll say this: a chateau in France is NOT out of the question in five years time.

Wiesenhof, Cresta

Tuesday, September 03, 2002

Service: * * *
Food: * * *
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * *1/2

I'm doing some structuring work on my film. Just cracked a vital piece of information-planting in an early scene. Worked out how to motivate Lesley-Anne's falling for Jules. This causes an orgy of SMS sending. I send self-congratulatory notes to Damon in Cape Town, and Janet in Pietermaritzburg. They send me supportive messages back. Yay! My friends love me and think I'm clever!

Supper is fundamental. A kiddie's burger with chips. I can't handle large expanses of animal flesh. I prefer it pertly packaged, tucked into a wheat-sheath. (Or on a futon.) So this dish is ideal. It arrives, and it turns out to be groovy value for money. The best thing about it is that the bread roll has been crisply toasted on the inside, under a toaster, and not squashed onto a grill. Nice touch.

The tea could be a bit better though. One bag. Big pot. A bit weak for three cups.

---

I catch the ten o'clock show of THE SUM OF ALL FEARS. At the box office, I ask the attendant to alert the manager to my presence at the cinema. She laughs.

"I'm serious," I say. "He's even given me his phone number, in case there are focus problems. This cinema always has a focus problem."

"Cresta???" she says.

I show her the manager's number on my phone.

I get to the queue of people waiting to go in. I say to the usher, "Who do I need to speak to if the focus is incorrect?"

He looks at me, points a finger at his own chest. A couple who've bought tickets for the same movie laugh out loud at my question. The girl tugs at her boyfriend's arm and says to me, "You serious about this?"

I smile broadly. After all, I'm a media guerrilla, aren't I?

In the cinema, the trailers and adverts are out of focus. Just before the main feature rolls, I phone the manager's number.

"Ster-Kinekor-Cresta-how-can-I-help?"

"Hi," I say. "I'm sitting four rows from the front in your cinema, the one showing THE SUM OF ALL FEARS. Please will you ask the projectionist to focus the picture?"

Rapid-fire Zulu and laughter.

I take the initiative. "Hello?" I say loudly into the phone. "Please focus this movie, all right?"

"Please will you hold?"

Click.

She's put the phone down on me. So I dial again. And it keeps ringing until the movie starts. Just as I'm about to get up to complain about the focus to a human being, a contingent of Ster Kinekor uniforms mulls about the back of the cinema, rushes out, and suddenly, thirty seconds later, the movie is in focus.

On the Roy scale, THE SUM OF ALL FEARS gets a sweaty-palmed 8 out of 10. Good, solid, thrills, with a clever script. Very few obvious plot holes. Hmm. Actually. On reflection, it's FULL of plot holes. My reconsidered rating is 6 out of 10.

Wimpy, Campus Square, Melville

Monday, September 02, 2002

Service: * *1/2
Food: *1/2
Ambience: *
Babe Count: * *

It's 8:30am. I'm here with my work colleagues. We've decided to have breakfast together instead of having our usual Monday morning meeting, during which we normally view each other's promos in stony silence.

My Egg and Bacon on Muffin arrives. And suddenly I'm transported back to Yeoville, 1988.

I lived in a commune in Raleigh Road while I was at 702 radio, just after I dropped out of Electrical Engineering at Wits. The head of the commune was an authentic tree hugger with a penchant for marijuana and Carling Black Label beer. He also had an ex-girlfriend called Monica-Crazy who woke me up one night by smacking on my window with the hilt of a thirty-inch butcher's knife, asking me to let her in cos she wanted to see Greg.

The way the house worked is that all three of the tenants paid Greg the rent, and he would go and do all the shopping.

One month-end, Greg must have had some kinda problem with his dad's beer-pusher, cos when I woke up at nine, ready to have some muesli and head off for work at eleven (I drove the lunchtime Newstalk with Chris Gibbons, and the Four-to-Six Afternoon Fix with Stan Katz), there was no food in the house. Nothing. Not even a rotten potato.

Which forced me to do the unthinkable.

I got ready for work, and walked down Raleigh Street to the Bimbo's at the start of Rockey Street. There's something you've got to understand about the Bimbo's in Rockey Street, Yeoville, 1988. It was a 24-hour joint that never once, to my knowledge, had more than one person inside, and that was the guy behind the counter.

That morning, I was the first customer he'd seen in months. Maybe even years. So he was overjoyed when I ordered the muffin breakfast.

There's no way to describe the perversion, the sickness, the fetid accumulation of sado-masochistic vengeance laid into one muffin breakfast. All I can say is that I'm happy nowadays that I can afford more classy joints to hang out in. (Like the Wimpy in Melville.) And that I can afford to spend money on therapy.

Primi Piatti, Rosebank Zone

Sunday, September 01, 2002

Service: * * * *
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

Oh, woe is me! Bernie is leaving Primi to go and start a restaurant in Bangladesh or Barraine or somewhere equally not-here! He's the manager.

A magic guy. Rumoured to be a second-dan karate champ. Fond of a double Jack on ice. Shaven-headed just like me. And happy to slot me in at the front of any queue, no matter how long, and no matter which crud-holed so-called celebrity was there before me.

So damn. When I hear this news, I'm alerted to the fact that I'd better get into pal mode with Nicky, the owner. Nicky's a young, trendoid Greek guy with serious taste in babes. His girlfriend is one awesome brunette. He's sitting at the table next to mine. I'm with Wendy New, the dazzling musician whose launch I went to on Thursday night. She's Damon Berry's girlfriend. He's my best friend. She's off limits.

The waiter brings the bill. Wendy and I divvy up and pay. I glance over to the table next door and pretend to see Nicky for the first time.

"Nicky!" I say, as if I've had more than the seven conversations I've ever had with him. "Thanks for lunch!" It's taken me this long to greet him because I've lost his name in the dark recesses of my sewerage encrusted brain. In the interests of diplomacy, I don't try to look up his girlfriend's skirt.

"Roy!" he says. "Don't tell anyone I'm eating here, okay?"

---

I decide to go and see MINORITY REPORT. I see it in The Zone, Cine 1. The focus is out. All the way through. But not so badly that I can't enjoy the movie. Apart from a serious plot hole concerning the amount of pain that Tom Cruise would be forced to endure after using the face-changing drug which he proceeds to use without suffering any gruesome consequences, apart from this, the film has enough charisma and story cred to make it into the top three science fiction file, along with BLADE RUNNER (the Director's Cut) and THE MATRIX. Some people say TERMINATOR is up there, but I'm not sure. TOTAL RECALL was way better.

So, MINORITY REPORT gets a good solid 7 out of 10 on the Roy scale.

Grande Cafe, Rosebank

Saturday, August 31, 2002

Service: * * *1/2
Food: * *
Ambience: * * *1/2
Babe Count: * *1/2

Alistair and I are playing backgammon here today. He's now the doubles champion, after beating sixteen other teams, including the one I was in, to take the trophy. It's a gaudy glossy plasticcy thing, that only a mother could love. And boy oh boy, Alistair definitely had some birth pains to deliver this one. So hey, Alistair -- congrats, boyo! Hard work pays off.

Alistair's game has notched up to a new level. He's been taking lessons with one of South Africa's top players, Tony Matsouris. And it shows.

Except for today. Cos I thrash him. Not once. Not twice. But thrice! Three matches up to 13 points, and I take him each time. With no Vaseline.

As compensation for the butt-stubbing he's just suffered, Alistair takes to gazing in authentic doe-eyed goofiness at the manageress. Blonde. Petite. Hair chopped in one of those bobs that gets motorcycle helmet designers wet around the extremities. Trouble is, Alistair is a romantic. So he doesn't want to find a way to take her home and shag her. He wants to make her like him so he can marry her and have children. Maybe she'll be a trophy wife. Then their children will look like little backgammon trophies.

---

After backgammon Alistair heads off, I decide to see a movie. I wander down to Cinema Nouveau and find that THIRTEEN CONVERSATIONS ABOUT ONE THING is on. I pay my eight bucks (whah whah -- I'm a Vitality Club Platinum Card Holder) and go inside. Pretty darn empty for a Saturday matinee. It can't possibly be Rosh Hashonah yet, can it??? Nope. Just art movie time.

I settle down to a month or two of tedium. Well-acted, mind you, but tedious. I give it a yawn, and 4 out 10 on the Roy-o-meter.

The high point of my evening is when I come out of the movie and see Carmen studying the reviews pinned to the Cinema Nouveau board. I glance around the place, now fairly crowded, to see if her boyfriend is around. She seems to be alone. We chat a bit. Namely about the movie. Unfortunately, she's about to see the same one I've just seen. So I don't pan it. I just mildly encourage her to see AMELIE.

"Nah," she says. "We've already booked. And Alan Swerdlow said it was cool. So hey."

And then I notice the boyfriend, lurking around in the background. He doesn't look too difficult to get rid of.

The Blues Room, Village Walk, Sandton

Thursday, August 29, 2002

Service: N/A
Food: N/A
Ambience: * * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

I've invited about 10 buddies to come see Wendy New launch her first album. Masses of people are crowded into the Blues Room. Possibly to see Wendy New launch her first album. But more likely, to get laid by authentic South Africans.

See, there are about ten thousand WORLD SUMMIT passes hanging around the necks of their owners, and about a trillion languages and dialects are contributing to the Bable Babble of the Babes in Battle-gear.

I see Carmen, looking lovely with her long red hair and tasteful slacks. It's astonishing to me how a woman like Carmen can tear herself away from the mirror in the morning. If I looked that good, I'd own a mirror collection. Incidentally, have you ever noticed how mirrors steam up when you kiss them?

"So do I get to meet the mythical boyfriend?" I say, hoping she'll say something to the effect that he IS mythical, and that I'm actually next on the boyfriend list. Instead, she tells me that he only SEEMS mythical, and that he simply couldn't be at the gig due to a last minute emergency something or other.

I'm flitting between my various guests, paying not-enough attention to anyone, and trying to catch the eye of the Bulgarian diplomat called Fiorentina (it says so next to her photo on her neck-slung World Summit pass). Between her ample Bulgarian bulges.

But I lose interest in her when I spot Damon Berry in black leather pants. He's my best buddy, and he's here from Cape Town for just this one night, having been collected at the airport by his loving parents at 6pm. He's one of the puppeteers for TAKELANE SESAME STREET, and they've let him off for the evening. Schmucks. Wouldn't even reschedule him so he could have Friday free. Ah well. That's showbiz.

So I approach him, but he's seriously stressed. He gets like that before he performs. Which makes me glad. Cos that means he's going to be doing his rap on the song, Three Minutes Thirty, which he co-wrote with Wendy.

We agree to touch base after the gig, and he disappears into the little room behind the bar. I pop my head in to say hi to Wendy, and to tell her to break a string. (That's the musicians' equivalent to the actors' break a leg.) She smiles and then bursts into tears and hugs Damon. I disappear double quick and wait for the gig to start.

While I'm waiting, a killer babe with bum-length black hair sits on the bar stool opposite me. I'm in the VIP lounge at this point, chatting to Carmen and a Slovakian forestry dude. So my eye is directly in line with her crotch. The raven-haired sylph is talking to her boyfriend. And forgets that she's wearing a miniskirt. A black miniskirt. With a black blouse. Emphasising her black hair. And she crosses her legs. And it's a Sharon Stone moment for me. From one-and-a-half metres away, I get the full benefit of her smooth white panties.

And the fact that I'm staring at the siren's crotch might just explain why Carmen hasn't ditched her current boyfriend for me.

All goes well with the gig. Except for the fact that the sound desk can't get Wendy's vocal volume high enough, so they take the volume of the band down, which reduces the impact of her terrific songs. Makes them feel a bit energy-free. And she gabs too much between songs, losing lots of the audience not there for the launch.

I buy the cd at the door after, once I've left, after being snubbed by Fiorentina. Not to mention Liesl and Suzelle, the babes I met in Cresta's Seattle Coffee Co. And I play the cd three or four times before going to sleep. And it cooks. It really really cooks.

I send Wendy an SMS that says, "Remember -- I knew you before you were a superstar!"

Seattle Coffee Company, Cresta

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

Service: * * * *1/2
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

My life is complete. Paycheck firmly in my account. Decaff coffee in hand. And some delicious writing ahead of me.

I get to my table, the one I slapped my books down on before getting to the counter to place my order, the usual, the one the guys at Seattle Coffee Co all over Joburg know by now to be "One Harmless Grande Latte", and find that a Palestine has been perpetrated on me.

My table's been colonised.

But do I look like I'm complaining? Not on your father's nelly I'm not. The two uber babes I noticed earlier on while I was walking through Cresta pondering watching a movie instead of writing my own are camped out in my territory.

But hey. I'm armed. In the boot of my car is a brand new book I've just gotten my slick hands on. It's called DATING: A Survival Guide From the Frontlines. And I've read the back blurb already. And the table of contents. So I know what's what. Gottit? (I bought the book cos I've just had a little meeting with my far-too-gorgeous ex-babe, Antoinette. And after one-year of being broken up with each other, we're certainly not getting back together. And she refuses to have break-up sex with me. So what's a boy to do, eh?)

So I'm vaguely pleasant about the hostile takeover, and the two babes seem not unhappy with my demeanour. So we chat a bit. "I'm in marketing," says Liezl, after I figuratively press her for information.

Suzelle says, "I'm a griller at Nandos." Yeah, and I'm a frying pan consultant. So I press her, also figuratively, though I could get into doing it beyond metaphor, given half a chance. Turns out she's a tax accountant doing her practical year and finishing honours at Unisa.

"And you?" I say to the dude they've got with them.

"Marcus," he says, and I make a snap evaluation as to how much punishment I'll have to deliver to get him to detach from Suzelle. (I assume they're an item.)

I'm not allowed to mention this aloud, but they all hail from Krugersdorp. And the two babes are sharing a bed housesitting a place in Parkhurst.

"But not the way you think," says Suzelle.

"I don't know what you mean," I say, preparing a mental snapshot to be recalled at will late at night, alone, in my futon-nest in my cozy flat in Cresta. With my hot water bottle.

Suzelle catches my attention. "Roy," she says, "...and Liezl. Since you're sitting at the same table, this means it's your first date."

I almost ask Liezl if she believes in sex on a first date, but I've only been sitting with her for about 300 seconds, and I don't want to try setting any records tonight. And besides, I've still got to read that section in the Dating book. Not only that, you simply don't get mattresses in coffee-shops. Not in Cresta, at any rate.

But all of this shouldn't really matter, since I'm in a Cresta coffee-shop to get some more writing done on my screenplay. Right? Yeah. You know about the road to good intention being paved with Wonderbras.

While I'm wondering what witty wondrousness to whip out to impress the two babes, Liezl gets a call from a buddy, and has to leave.

Which would have been reallllllly sad if Suzelle and Marcus had actually been the item I assumed they were. But they're apparently not. So we spend the evening sitting in the coffee shop talking about tax issues, and how I need to fire Tax Relax, and take them to the consumer council to get my money back since they haven't actually rendered any services over the two years I've been with them.

And it dawns on me that I can leverage my famous friends in order to squeeze a real date out of Suzelle and Liezl.

I invite her and her friends to The Blues Room in the Village Walk for tomorrow night's launch of the latest mega-talent on the block. Wendy New will be releasing her cd in a one-hour gig for invited buddies and moguls only. And I'm way up there on the guest list. Important guy, huh?

So I'll be seeing more of Suzelle tomorrow night. And Liezl. So here's hoping that the dating book can give me some more pointers.

And maybe I'll be able to muscle out a couple of scenes of my movie before I go to sleep tonight. But it might be a different movie to the one I'm writing. And it might be set in a house in Parkhurst. Starring two uber babes. Taxing stuff, this.

Wiesenhof, Cresta

Tuesday, August 27, 2002

Service: * * *
Food: * *
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * *

Let's face it. I don't come here for the ambience. It's Cresta, for godsake! And I don't come here for the babes. It's really the convenience, and the size of the tables, and the privacy, and the fact that it's a five-minute drive away from my flat, or a one-minute walk (parking takes up the rest of the time). Not that I'd dream of walking.

Sometimes it's the food that draws me here. They make a really nice mince on toast. Their scrambled eggs on toast are respectable too.

But tonight I decide to do the Europa Cajun Chicken Salad test.

They fail miserably. Sorry, Kobus. You've GOT to get the salad right, broe! (I'm addressing this to Kobus Wiese, the exceedingly large Springbok Rugby prop who owns the franchise and whose name is in the restaurant moniker. I'm doing it via the internet because then I face very little chance of personal injury. Though he is a nice guy. He even said hello to me once, when he used to spend a lot of time in his own coffee-shop. I think he got too big for the chairs though.)

The chicken in this case is sliced VERY thick, making it tough and stringy, and a little on the -- uh -- let's say, squishy side. One of the pieces I cut open is quite pink on the inside. Not raw, but just past it. However, they do get the feta content right -- there's a fair amount of the crumbly white cheese, and it's got a great texture.

But everything really gets overshadowed by the dressing.

The dressing.

How do I talk about this stuff? It's bright orange, like those terrifying mounds of chips you see on the side of the road in one-metre long plastic packets. And it has some kind of curry powder in it. Perhaps this is meant to impart a Cajun ambience to the dish? I dunno.

This salad dressing comes across like one of those karaoke singers with too much nail polish, jiggly breasts pumping out of the tank top, and a hairdresser who belongs to the Misogynist Haridresser's Guild Of South Africa.

On the bright side, their coffee is delicious, and served in generous portions (I drink decaf, and get one of those Bodum plungers that holds two big mugs of coffee.)

And hey. The salad dressing helps me conserve power on my palmtop as I write a scene of my movie. It's bright enough for me not to need the screen backlight.

Europa, Norwood

Monday, August 26, 2002

Service: * * *
Food: * * * * *
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * *

I'm sitting here with my index cards spread all over the place. The babe count is disappointing, since Norwood's normally full of lovelies. But hey. I'm here because of the doubles backgammon tournament I'm in tonight, and I've got to get some food into myself before we play, and I've also got to get some writing done.

I order the Giselle, a Cajun chicken salad.

It arrives. I'm bowled over.

I measure all of my Cajun chicken salads against the one served at JB Rivers in Hyde Park. And you know what? From now on, Europa is the king of Cajun chicken salads.

It's quite simply a thrilling dish. Nothing overtly unusual about it. Simply a generous helping, not too overwhelmed by lettuce, but with tons of avocado, and the chicken sliced thin, well-spiced. Carrots and other veggies. And delicious slices of woody smoked cheese which might be pecorino or parmesan.